


anticipated stranger

by carnival_papers



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Come Eating, Dry Orgasm, Fantasizing, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, One-Sided Attraction, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostate Massage, Rough Sex, Spit As Lube, Verbal Humiliation, abuse of both commas and jfj's butthole, tom blanky: sex whisperer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:15:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29335917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnival_papers/pseuds/carnival_papers
Summary: “With all due respect, sir—if ever you find yourself…needingsomething, you’re free to come and see me.”There was a peculiar quirk to Thomas Blanky’s upper lip as he said this, a strange twist in his expression that James could not make sense of. Blanky turned the pipe in his good hand as if inspecting it before tucking it inside the pocket of his coat.“Mr. Blanky,” James said, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”Blanky sighed, then, and glanced up, meeting James’ eyes. In the low lamplight, Blanky’s pupils were small and focused, dark and piercing. “I don’t mean to presume, sir. But you’ve seemed a bit—knotted up, recently. Since Francis has been on the mend.”The ship creaked, its boards moaning under the crush of the ice, and the blue world outside pressed against the windows. In this moment, James felt a subtle but unmistakeable shift, like electricity standing hairs on end just before a lightning storm. James knew that, as though he were an entomologist’s specimen, he was pinned, caught, seen.
Relationships: James Fitzjames/Thomas Blanky
Comments: 13
Kudos: 41
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	anticipated stranger

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Terror Rarepair Week 2021, on the prompt "We're not so different".

“With all due respect, sir—if ever you find yourself… _needing_ something, you’re free to come and see me.”

There was a peculiar quirk to Tom Blanky’s upper lip as he said this, a strange twist in his expression that James could not make sense of. Blanky turned the pipe in his good hand as if inspecting it before tucking it inside the pocket of his coat.

“Mr. Blanky,” James said, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Blanky sighed, then, and glanced up, meeting James’ eyes. In the low lamplight, Blanky’s pupils were small and focused, dark and piercing. “I don’t mean to presume, sir. But you’ve seemed a bit—knotted up, recently. Since Francis has been on the mend.”

The ship creaked, its boards moaning under the crush of the ice, and the blue world outside pressed against the windows. In this moment, James felt a subtle but unmistakeable shift, like electricity standing hairs on end just before a lightning storm. James knew that, as though he were an entomologist’s specimen, he was pinned, caught, seen.

He had been nursing this odd feeling for Francis for some time, just as he had tried to tell himself that the feeling did not exist. James could not explain its source—as a man, Francis was more or less unremarkable, his shape and size not James’ usual preference, and his personality did him no favors. Still, there was something about Francis that intrigued James, that he wanted to prod at and pry open. At command meetings and wardroom suppers, James goaded Francis just to see what might happen, whether he would withdraw with a bottle of whiskey or, as he had once, slam a fist so hard on the table that a sugar bowl fell to the deck and shattered.

Each of these outbursts was a little victory that stoked the flames of James’ want, and though he tried now and then to exorcise it—sometimes in his bed, tugging at himself in rote, unfulfilling imitation; sometimes in Dundy’s cabin, pawing at each other as they had on _Clio_ —nothing satisfied him, nothing filled the precise space that Francis occupied in his fantasies. It infuriated him, and Francis’ absence had only magnified the intensity of his feelings. His thoughts drifted, often, to the night Blanky had lost his leg, the night Francis’ knuckles had crashed against James’ cheek, and when he brought himself off, biting his lip, he pressed his own knuckles to that same spot, relishing the memory of the pain spilling over into the empty pleasure of release.

He sensed that Blanky knew this, all of this, without his saying so. James swallowed, nerves rising in his throat. “What if—what if I need something now?” he said. He sunk his teeth into the inside of his cheek, his bottom lip, trying and failing to stall the rush of blood to his cock.

“You could accompany me back to _Terror_ ,” Blanky said, his words carefully measured, “or—“

“No,” James said, a ragged exhalation. “No. _Now_ , Mr. Blanky. Here.” Then, meekly: “Please.”

Blanky seemed to ponder the inquiry for a moment before nodding.

“Christ,” James said, and he scrambled to his feet. He was anxious suddenly, his hands trembling, twinned shame and hunger growing in him. His cock rubbed against the inside of his trousers—he wondered if Blanky had seen, if Blanky was repulsed by his need, his eagerness to open his legs for the first man who offered. James clasped his hands behind his back and stepped away from the table, as much wanting to give Blanky space as wanting to try to collect himself.

“We’re not so different, Francis and I,” Blanky said, groaning a little as he rose. “Though he’s about as observant as a doorpost when it comes to, ah, things of this nature.” Blanky surveyed the cabin, his avian eyes scanning, predatory, over the furniture and walls. “Here,” he said, tapping the table with his bandaged hand.

James began to protest, all the evening’s dishes still littering the table, but already, Blanky was shoving the china to one side, clearing a space. Blanky worked methodically, his wooden leg thumping as he circled the table. “Do you do this often?” James said. The quaver of his voice betrayed his trepidation, his fear that he would regret what he’d already set in motion.

Blanky cackled. “I don’t normally make house calls, no.” He stacked saucers and teacups and rearranged quickly, wasting no time, and then tapped the table again, repeating, “Here.”

Hesitant, James held Blanky’s gaze. His eyes, James realized, were almost the same shade of grey-blue as Francis’. And so, sighing, James surrendered. As he crossed the cabin to where Blanky stood, he checked that the sliding door was closed, imagining Bridgens on the other side, ear pressed close against the polished wood. The thought of it made James feel simultaneously cold and hot, nausea mingling with the warm tingle of curiosity. Blanky watched him closely, wearing the same knowing smirk he had earlier in the night, when he’d recalled how he’d wanted to cleave John Ross’ skull in two.

“How would you have me?” James asked. He had allowed himself to dream, sometimes, of how he would let Francis take him—facedown on his mattress or flat against the bulkhead, on his knees or with his legs spread wide, wanton and whimpering like a whore. And when Blanky moved behind him, maneuvering him into place with a firm hand at his waist, James let himself think of Francis’ hands, the short fingers wrapped around a glass of whiskey, the rough palms gripping a length of rope.

“Bend over,” Blanky said. “Put your weight on your forearms.”

James did as he was told, keenly aware of the size of his body, every minuscule movement of the dishes, how the table shifted under his weight. Behind him, Blanky was quiet, watching. James supposed it was demeaning to present himself like this, but then everything about this situation was demeaning. It was his own vices that had brought him here, his inability to conceal his urges—he deserved to be debased, humiliated, shamed.

There was a sudden tug at the back of his trousers, just enough friction against James’ cock to make him shiver. Then a second, and a third, and a grumbling. “A bit of help, Captain,” Blanky said, gruff but not unkind. James again found himself hastening to follow Blanky’s directions, propping himself on an elbow to undo a button. His fingers were clumsy—a product of his nervousness—but he pushed the button through and the fabric gave. Blanky shoved them down, and with some fuss pulled down the drawers as well, exposing James’ arse to the cold air.

He was disgusted with himself—he, a commander and now a captain, laid out for the fucking, prone and prostrate before Blanky, his very skin anticipating even the smallest touch. Had it been so long? He could not remember the last time he made his way to Dundy’s cabin, let those too-familiar hands work him, machinelike, in a routine that he loved and longed for but that increasingly left him wanting. Here, there had never been anyone else, though he was sure that he could have had his pick—after years on a ship, men became desperate, and it was easy, James supposed, to imagine that the body beneath you was a girl back home if you closed your eyes. He could have had any of them; he would have offered himself up willingly if the opportunity had presented itself.

But it would never be Francis, and that was the problem—he wanted Francis’ anger, his revulsion, the hate Francis held for him. He knew what Francis thought of him. Francis had always been clear that James was nothing to him, that James was here by a fluke, because he had appeased or bedded the right people, that James was nothing more than a liability. Perhaps it was true. He wanted Francis to prove it, to show him just how little he was worth.

He had been fucked, once, on _Cornwallis_ , by a man who hated him. _I’m not one of you lot_ , the man had said—a carpenter, with a carpenter’s rough, hard hands. Down in the hold, among the rats and fleas and crawling things, the man had wrapped his fingers around James’ throat and gripped tight, and James had gasped, choking on coal dust and his own spit, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He remembered the sound the man had made pushing into him, something caught between a laugh and a shout. James was lightheaded, dizzied with every thrust, his palms flat against the bulkhead. Afterward, with spend and blood still trickling from within him, the man had turned him around, told him to bring himself off, and he had, panting, the carpenter’s hands around his throat again, calling him _disgusting_ , spitting in his face. James buckled when he came, spurting hot onto the man’s boots. Without prompting, he had lowered himself to his knees, his cock still leaking as it softened, and he had put tongue to leather, licked them clean. He would pick splinters from the heels of his hands for days.

Now, he shut his eyes, impatient for Blanky to begin. “I trust you’ll keep this between us,” he said. The thought of anyone finding out—Francis, most of all—made him feel ill. He was cold, and the wood under his elbows was hard, and his cock ached despite his efforts to the contrary, the old taste of salt and spend and shoe and shit filling his mouth again.

“Of course,” Blanky said. “You’re far from the first.” An exploratory hand squeezing the round of James’ arse, first lightly and then with more force, fingers digging in. James tilted his hips just so, eager, and Blanky’s nails pressed into his flesh. The pain was small and insignificant, but it seared, and James took some pleasure in picturing the crescent-shaped imprints that would mark his skin. He sighed as Blanky’s hand moved over him, the nails pressing again here and there. It was good, a good start, but he wanted more, and harder, and inside him, rough and careless.

When Blanky was silent, it was easy to imagine that it was Francis behind him, studying his body. Blanky touched him—not gently, exactly, but with a restraint that tormented him. With Francis, there would be no restraint. Where Blanky merely sunk his nails in, Francis would drag them across his skin; where Blanky steadied him in place, Francis would hold him down. Francis would not hesitate to bruise him, would clear the china off the table with a sweep of his arm and fuck him even as the pieces were still clattering.

Blanky’s touch was searching, then, trailing over James’ skin. A single, teasing finger, tracing a line down from hip to thigh to where the trousers and drawers were bunched, just above his knees, and then back up, slipping between the thighs this time and stroking the tender spot behind his balls, his muscles clenching and releasing and clenching again as Blanky slid a second finger there under him and moved, slow and deliberate, like working a knot from a muscle. James bit his lip, let the feeling of it unfurl inside him, ink in water, and made a sound only when Blanky’s thumb slipped ghost-quick over his rim.

“There’s grease by my bunk, Mr. Blanky,” James said, unsteady. “On the second shelf.”

“Hm,” Blanky said, and withdrew his hand. James did not dare look back at him or speak again. Instead, James listened—he was certain Blanky did not move, for he did not hear the telltale thud of the wooden leg. The waiting was unbearable. In that respect, it was not unlike how he had imagined Francis might be.

He had a recurring reverie of himself laid out in Francis’ cabin, nude and hard and begging, his cock twitching against his stomach, an untouched and unloved creature waiting to be held in hand or crushed underfoot. In these daydreams, Francis was haughty and revolted, and instead of touching James he merely let down the fall front of his trousers and stroked at his own cock, the thing fat and red in Francis’ hands, his expression indulgent, smirking. Sometimes Francis told him to touch himself, made James bring himself close, close, over and over until the need was too much and James spilled helplessly into his hands, a pathetic man spattered with his own spend. More often, though, Francis was the one palming at himself, watching James, listening to him whine like a dog, sometimes laughing as he came, emptying himself onto James’ stomach or chest or face while James thanked him for it. But Francis never touched him, no matter how much he pleaded, and this only served to make James want it even more.

A single spit-slick finger pushed into him, hesitance giving way to determination, feeling him from within. James’ knees threatened to give from the sudden pressure, but he braced himself, gripping the edge of the table and gasping at every minuscule movement. Blanky curled his finger knowingly, rubbing at the wall of muscle inside James. The resistance of skin against skin, nearly-dry finger curving in and out, created a sharp, sweet pain that swept through James. It was good, but it hurt, and Blanky offered no soothing words, no praise for James’ bravery. He wanted to be told he was strong for fighting through it, even though it stung, even though Blanky sped up, his strokes harsh and buffeting, each one striking like the tail of the lash.

The china on the table clinked in time with each shove, though it did nothing to conceal the low noise that rose up from James’ throat, unbidden. Christ, it hurt, it _hurt_ , and he wanted it to hurt, because Francis wouldn’t care about him, wouldn’t go slow, wouldn’t fetch the grease. No, Francis would do just this—remove his finger only to spit on it again, to trail hot, sticky saliva down the cleft of James’ arse, dribbling over James’ hole. Like Blanky, Francis would shove two fingers in, harder this time, and James would cry out, as he did now, abandoning any sense of dignity and letting himself crumple, his cheek flat against the woodgrain, watching the dishes shake.

“Is this what you needed, Captain?” Blanky asked, a wickedness in his voice. Francis wouldn’t care what he needed—if Francis _knew_ he needed this, Francis would never give it to him. James was unmoored, pulled apart; he could no longer make sense of his feelings, his desires. As much as he tried to stay quiet, he groaned when Blanky’s fingers pistoned in and out of him, and when he tried to say _yes, I needed this, yes,_ the words were formless, and Blanky laughed and laughed. He had not expected Blanky to be so experienced in this, but the quick, tight circles of his fingertips and the precision of his thrusts revealed his true expertise. It was almost funny.

For some time, James reveled in the feeling of being abused. He could never simulate this himself, and Dundy was always too gentle with him, soft after their years spent sharing one another’s bunks. Blanky would leave him sore for days, and every pained wince upon sitting or standing, every pink droplet of blood that stained his drawers, every bruise that formed on his pale skin would be a pleasant reminder of what they’d done. He thought of Francis seeing him walk bowlegged across the ice—would Francis know? Would he recognize it? Had Francis and Blanky—

His body, he realized now, was trembling, and fluid oozed from the tip of his cock. He had never managed to do this to himself; his wrists and hands grew tired if he tried. And he had never asked for it, never known _how_ to ask for it. Pleasure filled him, like a warm bath in reverse, starting from the deepest part of him and spilling over, slow as honey dripping from a spoon. He was unmade, and though he did not spend, he felt drunk from Blanky’s fingers, the same warm, woozy high he had reached in an opium den in Zhenjiang, giggling into Dundy’s shoulder and breathing in the haze. He hurt too much to laugh now, but he lowered himself into the feeling and suspended himself within it, unsure of the boundaries of his body, of time or place, of even his own name—luxuriating in the exquisitely intertwined threads of pain and pleasure that tied him up.

He was empty, suddenly, and as he shook, he listened, trying to decipher Blanky’s actions. The strange new sensation of cloth against his arse—Blanky’s bandaged hand, he realized, resting there, steadying him. It was an unexpected comfort, simple and intimate. Francis, of course, would do no such thing, and James wouldn’t want him to—it would feel wrong if Francis was good to him, if, after all their squabbles, Francis touched him not with a closed fist but an open palm. It would be wrong; James would not abide it. He thought of asking Blanky to hit him, like doing so would make up for this strange moment of softness. Like doing so would mean he hadn’t wanted the softness just as much.

On the bad nights, the nights when they’d lost men, James retreated to his bunk and longed for a body next to him. He’d never been the sort of man who had partners, lovers, but he wished for one, now and then. There was Dundy, yes, but Dundy was different—his best friend, his almost-brother, their clumsy fumblings more a courtesy to one another than out of any real attraction. Still, when he was desperate, he padded down the passageway to Dundy’s cabin and slipped into bed beside him, their legs and arms entangled, two bodies occupying the same space. But most nights, he stayed in his own bed, back flat against the bulkhead, and imagined someone there. More and more often, that someone was, inexplicably, Francis. It was an idiotic little delusion, the daydream of a girl who hoped to marry a prince, but he came back to it over and over. He wondered if, under his uniform, Francis was strong and barrel-chested, or if he was soft and round, and if the freckles that dusted his cheeks in the sunlight extended to his shoulders, and if that part of Francis that loved Miss Cracroft held space for men like him, too. He recognized how foolish this was, how pitiful and pathetic it was to dream of a man who hated him, but he could not stop himself.

Warm skin pressed up behind him, the prod of a hardening cock impatient against his arse. It took a great deal of strength not to whine, to rub himself against Blanky. James was weak, wanting, and certainly Blanky knew this, played on this, held back just to draw even more sounds out of him. Peals of pain resounded inside him, echoing through every cavern and cavity of his body. It was good to feel, even if it was pain. More often than not, James was simply numb to everything—one of the expedition’s side-effects, he figured. The only sensations his body usually registered were hunger and cold, the two things that most threatened his survival in the Arctic. Everything else was secondary. Now, to have his mind full of only pain was a gift. Behind him, Blanky was spitting into his hand again, and James was lost and desperate, babbling _pleasepleaseplease_ like a prayer.

When he was a younger man, he had dived into a river to save someone who was drowning. He had done it without thinking, as he did so many things back then, and he had regretted it as soon as he slipped under the surface of the water. His clothes weighed him down, and the current tried to swallow him, and the drowning man sputtered and thrashed and kicked at him. Yet, somehow, he had gathered the strength, found power in his legs and arms and air in his lungs, and he had dragged the man to the riverbank, and they had both lived. He was praised for it, of course, but he had remembered the feeling of every molecule in his body fighting, straining, and the river pulling at him, and how water had filled his mouth, how he breathed it in and out and thought _he_ would be the one to drown, and how the pain of breathing and choking on water sang for days and days and days after, and even the silver cup, polished so bright that he could see his face reflected in it, not even _that_ could alleviate the hurt and the constant feeling that if he stopped fighting against it—he did not know what—he would slip and fall and die.

It was this that he thought of when Blanky entered him—the feeling of drowning, of being suddenly overtaken. In actuality, it was not sudden at all; Blanky eased into him slowly at first, and James groaned as his body shifted and stretched to accommodate Blanky’s thick cock. “Good lad,” Blanky said, fully sheathed within James, a hand gripping tight on James’ hip. How could a pain be sharp and dull at once? It was as if he himself had been split open, a skull cracked in halves by the single swing of a boat axe. Some part of him wanted to tell Blanky to stop, that he regretted all of this, that he had been misled, but—Blanky crashed into him, like waves, like a current, and James could only give himself over, let himself be engulfed.

Being fucked by Tom Blanky was like being caught in the middle of a storm at sea; there was no use fighting against it because it was a force of nature, at once terrifying and beautiful in its unrestrained intensity and artless grace. James watched the dishes shuddering, the table now and then skittering forward underneath him, his legs limp and weak and useless. When Blanky sped his rhythm, James could not contain the cry that knifed out of him, a piercing, keening thing that he imagined carrying over the ice to Francis’ twin cabin on _Terror_. The thought of Francis hearing it made him wild, and from that thought spiralled more and more: Would Francis know it was him? Would Francis know it was _Blanky_? Would Francis, in his half-sober stupor, be moved to take himself in hand, to think of James as he touched himself? James’ cheek was pressed against the surface of the table, and Blanky’s every thrust reverberated through the wood to James’ face, to his bones, each little impact a reminder of the punch Francis had given him, more of a gift than Francis would ever realize.

Blanky grunted with exertion, low, guttural noises that reminded James of that carpenter on _Cornwallis_. Had he asked too much of Blanky? The man _had_ just lost his leg, but—the ferocity with which Blanky clapped his bandaged hand over James’ mouth spoke to the contrary. “Rather not explain this to Mr. Bridgens, sir,” Blanky growled, ursine. James tried to quiet himself, settling on mewling into Blanky’s palm. A stack of saucers teetered at the corner of the table, inching ever closer to the edge. James willed them to fall, willed _all_ of the dishes to shatter on the floor, if only to cover up his own sounds.

Around his cock, then, Blanky’s strong hand, rough and calloused like Francis’ would be. It was too much, being surrounded by Blanky like this, and James’ muscles throbbed with pain. But Blanky did not let up, did not even give James a moment to breathe—only pushed him and pushed him and pushed him, testing his limits. That was good, that was what Francis would do. He wanted to show Francis what he could take, that he was strong enough to be here, to withstand this, to bend and not break. If he was strong enough, he could convince Francis he was worthy. Then Francis would see why the Admiralty had picked him, and maybe Francis would still resent him but at least Francis would know, then, what he was capable of, that he hadn’t been sent here by accident.

Blanky’s palm pressed hard against James’ face, and from Blanky’s shallow, unsteady breaths, James sensed he was close. Any sort of rhythm was lost. James tried to tighten himself around Blanky’s cock, wanting to drain Blanky dry—a strange kind of thank-you—but he was too overwhelmed to do so, the cabin a cacophony of sound and sensation, the slap of skin on skin, the gorged, glutted feeling of being thoroughly fucked. He imagined Francis again—Blanky’s rumbling groans replaced with Francis panting, Francis calling him _bastard cockslut mongrel whore,_ Francis bearing down on him and fucking him without ceasing, past pleasurable pain to the point of hurting him, bruising him, breaking him, Francis emptying himself into James in thick white spurts, so much it leaked out of him—and with a particular twist of Blanky’s hand, James spent, his whole self tensing, a shout or a sigh muffled under Blanky’s palm, sweat or tears caught at the corners of James’ eyes.

Blanky seemed to laugh, tightening his hand to milk James of every drop, then, heaving, a low noise like thunder rising from Blanky’s chest, Blanky fell onto him, his full weight crushing James against the table as Blanky filled him full. They both gasped, exhausted, and for a few quiet moments, there was only the sound of breathing, the strangeness of this coupling finally coming into clear, sharp focus. In a swift motion, Blanky released James’ wilting, wasted cock, collecting James’ spend on his fingers, and placed this hand to James’ lips instead. James, ever dutiful, licked Blanky’s fingers clean, took them into his mouth and sucked, tasted himself on his own tongue. Blanky was heavy on top of him—he was grizzled and coarse but he was strong, and he knew what he was doing, and though shame began to bloom in James’ stomach he also felt indebted. When Blanky withdrew his fingers, James murmured a word of thanks, but Blanky said nothing.

In his daydreams, Francis never touched him. That did not change, no matter how much James wanted it to. He desired more, of course; he wanted Francis to truly _want_ him, but even in fantasy, James was incapable of imagining it. Sometimes, though—when the want or the need overwhelmed him—James thought of Francis wiping him clean. He would still be brusque, of course, and surely he would tell James how pathetic he was to let himself be used like this. But, with a soft handkerchief in hand, perhaps he would dab the spend from James’ face or chest or stomach, and perhaps in his face there would be something like kindness, and perhaps in the process his thumb might brush over James’ skin—meaningless, an accident, but something to hold onto, the tiniest grain of hope.

Blanky did not touch him, nor did Blanky wipe him clean. And that was fine, James told himself, it was what Francis would do, really, and that had been the point of this, hadn’t it? His mind was a fog, everything distant—somewhere, Blanky was pulling out of him, and somewhere, there was spend trickling down his thigh, and somewhere, Blanky was adjusting himself, pulling up his own trousers, making himself respectable. But James was shattered, no energy left in him to move or speak. The air was cold on the backs of his legs again. This is how Francis would leave him, debauched, debased, and Francis would not think twice about it. Francis would abandon him here and then forget him—Francis would go above deck and act as if nothing had happened, because to him, nothing had. James was nothing to him. James knew this. And James knew that he himself would remember everything, the precise girth of Francis within him, how it had felt to be so full, and the particular sound Francis had made as he came, and how, for just a moment, Francis had grabbed him by the hips and buried himself in James, pulled him close and fucked him deep, and the way it felt to be held in Francis’ hands, just a tool to him, a thing used and used well.

The unexpected weight of an open palm on his head, a priest’s blessing. A thumb swept through his hair, curiously gentle, almost affectionate.

“Poor sod,” Blanky said, ruffling James’ hair as he drew back his hand. A moment's silence, James wishing for a second touch. Then, far off, the crooked thump of the wooden leg, the sliding door, Blanky’s laugh, and James was alone.

**Author's Note:**

> With gracious thanks to [salvage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salvage) for the use of their Tom Blanky: Sex Steward idea, to [icicaille](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille) and [reinetta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reinetta) for their unending support and cheerleading, and to my partner for the anatomy help. Title is lifted from the [John Ashbery poem of the same name](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53385/anticipated-stranger).
> 
> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/himbodundy) and [Tumblr](https://birdshitisland.tumblr.com/)!


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